


Yes

by helptheEXO



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Gender Neutral, Mentions of Canon Child Abuse, Mentions of Sex, No one dies/everyone lives, Other, Reader Insert, You're Welcome, one day i'll remember how to properly tag, today is not that day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-06-01 14:53:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15145559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helptheEXO/pseuds/helptheEXO
Summary: Post the Collapse, the Deputy thinks.





	Yes

**Author's Note:**

> No one dies/Everyone is stuck in the bunkers together. For the sake of my sanity, the bunkers are connected.

  “How old were you?”

  The question is whispered into the dark, thoughtlessly, and you regret it immediately. Beneath your fingertips, muscles tense, bunch up, and a quiet breath rushes over your collarbone. The moment stills, the air becomes tense, and you stare at the ceiling of the the room, wishing you’d kept your mouth shut.

  But that was the thing, you saw it now. Even in the quiet of the night, even silent, there was something about John that made you want to talk. Before the collapse, things had been chaotic. You had been running, trying to stop the madness that was the Seeds and John had been…

  John had terrified a part of you. He was too perfectly put together, too pretty to be real. But there was a madness about him that only seemed amplified by your presence, your existence. The longer you were around each other, the longer you were  _ wanted  _ and  _ hunted _ , the longer you were  _ marked _ , the more wild and unpredictable he’d become. And it wasn’t until you defeated him and his family, until the bombs first started falling and you all found yourself in the combined Seed bunkers, that that crazed part of him calmed.

  He was still obsessed with you, still lurked in your shadow, running a commentary of your every action. He still made  _ comments  _ during monthly meetings with his family and yours about supplies, but the crazed look in his eye changed.

  During the day you snark at each other, you sass and exchange barbs that no one is fooled by. John sweet talks in a way that’s decidedly frightening and mad, and you fend him off with wit and sharp words. And then he laughs at you until you kick him out of the room, or on rare occasions you evacuate yourself.

  At night, you fall into bed with him like it’s the easiest thing in the world to do. John fucks you like he’s looking for something, hard and rough and desperate. But he is also quiet and near unbearably intense. It’s only when he peaks that he makes noise, raw and rough, and then he’s quiet again, sprawled against your side, his face buried in your shoulder, his breath quiet and deep, almost asleep, almost at a peace that you thought was unattainable for him, for you both.

  ( It was only logical that you fell into bed together, and no one is surprised when you do. John and you brought out the worst and best in each other, you a calm and quiet force of nature, unstoppable even in a world on fire, and him, open and loud, a raw spirit that was exposed and explosive at the slightest provocation.

  The resistance was disgusted at first, or at least what’s left of it. In fact, Adelaide and Sharky are the only ones to take it in stride. And as days turn to weeks, and weeks turn to months, and the matters of the bunker become less  _ peggies vs. the resistance _ and more about  _ working together to survive _ , your sex life becomes less important. And for that you are grateful. )

  But the thing about John was, he never talked, not really. Sure, he yapped, he ran his mouth like an insolent child, testing your patience with constant teasings and sharp remarks about  _ knowing your sins _ that had you considering taking a chance on the outside, outside the bunker. But he never spoke about himself, not since the mockery of a confession during which he’d spoken of his adopted parents and the beatings they handed out to him. 

  After that, you’d fled to the Henbane River, afraid of him, afraid of what you knew your sins were, afraid of him pulling them from you and making you face your own wickedness. 

  You’d tried not to think about it, about his words and what he’d told you. When your fingernails and mouth catch on raised scars at night, you force yourself to think elsewhere, remember where to bite, where to dig your fingertips to make him gasp into the dark of his room. But always in a post-cotial haze, as your fingertips drag down the nape of his neck, across his shoulders, you find yourself falling into the same thought process.

  How old was he when they started this torture? Why had he stayed? Why had he continued to let the abuse fall on him? Did he think he deserved it?

  At night, these questions haunt you. And on this night, your mouth gets ahead of your brain.

  “I’m sorry.” The silence stretches too long, and you can’t help the shame that washes over you. “I didn’t mean--”

  “I don’t know.” The answer is mumbled against your collarbone, too soft to come from a man that once tried to drown you, scar you,  _ mark you _ . “I remember the kitchen that night. I remember the pain. Their pleas for me to  _ confess _ . But I… I had scars before that.  _ Old Mad Seed _ had left his marks on me long before my parents ever did.”

  You squint at the nickname given to his biological dad, lips parting and then closing. It’s hard for you not to feel sympathetic to him, to them all, and you hate yourself for it. Their hardships were not an excuse for them to run around, killing people,  kidnapping and hurting and destroying families wherever they wanted. But…

  Had you not done the same? You’ve lost count at this point of how many cultists you’ve taken down, how many lives you’ve cut short, just because they wore Joseph’s cross on their clothes or sang praise of the Father. 

  John Seed was not the only one in this room, in this bed, with blood on his hands. Your soul was just as filthy and dirtied by your sins as his was.

  “John…” You close your eyes. Breathe in deep, out through your nose. “I would like to confess my sins.”

  You don’t receive an answer, but at this point, you don’t need to. You know what John’s answer will be. 


End file.
